


Begin Again

by ArkadyFlowers



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArkadyFlowers/pseuds/ArkadyFlowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins with a frozen windshield, and Snow running late for work. Neither of these are all that surprising; it‘s January, it‘s been bloody snowing and freezing overnight for the past three weeks, and Snow is an idiot. </p><p>---</p><p>Five years after the White Tower battle, the dead zones are starting to snap closed more suddenly than predicted. Baz and Penny know it's optimistic to the point of sheer foolishness, but they can't help hoping this might be Simon's one chance to get his magic back, if they can just be in the right place at the right time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday January 22nd, 2021

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks go to Rhien, theadorart (tumblr) and RooWanders (AO3); I couldn’t have done this without you guys, and I appreciate every comment, critique, scream, cry and arse-kick that got this fic from the beginnings of an idea to a finished piece.
> 
> Comments and constructive crits are, of course, more than welcome!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PS. Pay attention to the dates.

**B A Z**  
  
It begins with a frozen windshield, and Snow running late for work. Neither of these are all that surprising; it‘s January, it‘s been bloody snowing and freezing overnight for the past three weeks, and Snow is an idiot.

And, alright, maybe I didn‘t want to let him get up, but in my defence, he didn‘t protest all that much, either. (Read: at all.) (We‘ve been _terrible_ since the engagement. Not that we ever really stopped; Bunce goes nuts every time she‘s back from America, telling us to knock it off, but we know she doesn‘t mind all that much from the way she can‘t quite bring herself to stop smiling entirely. But the last month - to the day, today - has been something else.) 

So, this is how I come to be standing in the snowy back street behind our flat, which we‘ve lived in for three years now and have the neighbours well trained that this bit of the pavement is where I/we park _my_ car, in green tartan pyjama trousers and a wool coat over a sodding tee-shirt, hair not even dragged out of last night‘s messy ponytail to brush through yet, at oh-dark-hundred with snow falling and Snow hanging on to my arm looking apologetic.

It‘s completely my fault (we did ‘five more minutes‘ six times) and I don‘t mind one bit, not that I‘m going to let on to him that I don‘t.

“You know the kettle takes forever to boil,” he points out. “And there‘s no de-icer.”

“Because you didn‘t get any,” I remind him, irritable at being hauled out of bed at stupid o‘clock. (Seven. Seven is stupid o‘clock. He‘s lucky I‘m awake enough to spell his stupid gorgeous wings and stupid sexy tail invisible, or maybe that was part of his cunning plan in waking me up the way he did. Crowley and Crystal, no, if I start thinking he‘s cunning I‘ll drive myself bloody mad.)

“It‘s your car,” he protests.

“You drive it enough.” Enough that he should be capable of getting de-icer in the middle of winter, damn it. He put petrol in just yesterday. They sell de-icer at petrol stations, I know for a fact.

“You keep telling me it‘s yours.”

“It‘s yours enough when it bloody suits you,” I mutter, but nudge in against him a bit too, because why even bother pretending I could resist?

“Get on with it, would you, twat,” he says with nothing but the most sincere affection.

“Fine,” I snap back with the most heartfelt adoration. The street‘s deadly quiet this time of day - we deliberately picked a quiet neighbourhood when we moved from the flat he used to share with Bunce - so I dare unleash a short, carefully directed column of flame across the windshield. The snow and ice underneath it melts away at once, revealing the horribly messy interior of my once-pristine car. (And then I let Snow drive it. )

I get half-way through a sentence - “Can I go back to b--”, specifically - when I feel it.

He does too, his grip on my ungloved free hand tightening suddenly. He‘s not wearing gloves either, of course, because, again, Snow is an idiot.

He looks at me wide-eyed, grinning. “Did you--?”

“Yes. _Yes_.” I want to kiss him. He beats me to it. The back of my coat is soaked through in half a second as I‘m pushed back against the side of the car, but I‘m not going to complain. I never would, and right now, even less so.

After thirty seconds or a minute or a lifetime or so, though, I do shove him off, reluctantly. “Go. You‘re already running late.”

“But I--”

“Snow! Get out of here!” I order, opening the car door for him.

He takes the hint, drops the back of the seat down so his invisible wings don‘t get crushed and steps in. “Okay. See you tonight. We‘ll talk tonight. No, I‘ll text you. I love y--”

I shut the car door on him and melt a heart shape into the barely-there frost that remains on the edge of the driver‘s side window before bounding back up the stairs to the flat. I need coffee, I need a smoke, and I desperately need to Skype Bunce.

 


	2. Wednesday December 23rd, 2020

**P E N N Y**

It begins with my Dad waking me up at an hour that feels like it should be some insane time of the night, but, due to jetlag, isn’t. There’s watery winter sunlight peeking through the curtains, and I can smell breakfast. Mum’s cooking. I appreciate it, I really do, but I’d appreciate it more if we hadn’t landed at half-past ten last night and promptly crashed into bed.

Micah sort of stirs beside me, but doesn’t actually wake up. I haven’t got much chance of getting back to sleep, though, so I shove his arm off me and pad out into the hallway in fleecy pyjamas with bleary eyes and my hair probably a right state, not that I care.

And Dad tells me the most incredible, impossible thing. Appropriately, with it being two days before Christmas, it’s like all my Christmases come at once.

_Maybe_.

But I can’t let myself get too excited. And I can’t stop to think about it too much, because we agreed to go over to Simon and Baz’s place this morning, not least because I think Simon needs somebody to talk to in person before he drives himself up the wall.

I’ve had four months of Simon going up the wall at me over Skype. I didn’t know Simon had four months’ worth of patience once he made a decision, but he’s managed it, somehow. Today’s the day - their five-year anniversary, and by tonight, the anniversary of the day Simon Snow proposed. (He actually asked me if I thought he’d say yes. I gave him a look that I really hope implied I thought he was absolutely _stupid_.)

It’s nerve-wracking, though, I know that; I thought about proposing to Micah a few times (who says it’s only men who can propose?) before we talked about it and mutually agreed we didn’t need to get married yet, if ever. Simon and Baz, on the other hand, I’m surprised lasted five full years before somebody got the urge.

We land on their doorstep about half-eleven, just about awake (caffeine helped; I’m considering mainlining Pro-Plus to get through the jetlag), and Simon immediately throws the door open and just about drags us both inside. He’s in full wings and tail today, which means he hasn’t left the house; I know from the itinerary I made him write that he’s been off work since Monday, Christmas break, two full weeks. The place is neat enough, though there are books _everywhere_ , thick textbooks with complicated titles, and a scattering of academic journals all over the coffee table. It feels like home - our home, the flat we (all, most of the time) shared before I moved to America - except a bit tidier. I haven’t been back in almost a year, and it looks like in that time Baz has finally got Simon at least a little bit house-trained.

Baz must be out, because the first thing he says, before we’ve even got our coats off, is, “In six hours I’m either going to be engaged or--”

“Or nothing,” I cut him off, not-quite-deliberately catching him in the face with the tail end of my scarf as I whip it off and hang it up by the door. “Hi, it’s lovely to see you, too. _Stop worrying_. Please. It’s going to be absolutely fine.”

“I know,” he says, after a moment, and takes my coat (he’s not a gentleman but he is a sweetheart) as Micah shrugs out of his own and hangs that up, too. “And it’s _great_ to see you, Pen, and hi, Micah-- it’s just--”

But I mercifully don’t have to find out what it just is, because the front door opens again and Baz steps through, bearing four Starbucks take-away mugs in one of those cardboard cup holders and letting in a blast of icy air just when I’d started to feel the warmth of the flat. I doubt Simon’s ever shut up so fast in his life.

“How’s the Masters?” I ask, blinking at the coffee being held out in my general direction. “Is that for me?”

“No, it’s for the cat. Welcome back to England.”

“We don’t have a cat,” Simon adds helpfully, “yet.”

“No cat,” Baz tells him. Clearly this is an ongoing discussion. “It’s against the lease.”

“So is smoking.”

“It would want to be out all the time. Bunce, Micah, coffee.” I suspect he can’t remember Micah’s surname, and that’s the only reason he’s on a first name basis.

I take the cardboard mug with a smile. “Thanks. Living room?”

“It’s right there. How’s America?”

“Brilliant,” I say brightly. “Work’s going really well, I’m going after a new role in the New Year-- better paid, more responsibility... You?”

Micah and I take one couch, Simon and Baz the other; this place is a bit bigger than the flat we shared, room for two full couches and a coffee table. He’s got so used to the wings now that he doesn’t even shuffle a bit to get comfortable, just settles down naturally and flicks his tail across the cushions. Baz taps it lightly on the downswing and it settles across his lap; I’m not sure who put it there, but it’s a familiar pose. They like touching.

“Thanks for the tea, by the way,” Simon says, popping the plastic cover off. It’s so sweet we all get a whiff of sugar.

“Welcome,” Baz says, then, to me, “I’m fine-- we’re fine. Masters is going well, thank you for asking.”

“He’s taking up recreational doctorates next year,” Simon adds with a grin.

“One. Maybe.”

“And then another, and another.”

“We’ll see.”

I let them bite back and forth for another minute - honestly, it’s nice to see, I’d never admit it but I miss this - and when they hit an eventual lull, speak up again. “We brought anniversary presents.”

“You didn’t have to,” Baz says, at the exact same moment as Simon perks right up and says, “Oooh, thanks!”

“We did anyway,” Micah says with a grin, offering over the sparkly silver paper bag.

For the next five minutes we’re all engaged with the oh-wow-thank-yous and really-it’s-no-bothers, and then - I know it’s a bit mean but I can’t resist - I ask, “Any plans tonight, then?”

Simon shoots me a look that plainly says _Penny, you know I have plans, don’t be a tit_ , out of Baz’s sight line. So it’s Baz who answers. “Apparently so, but he won’t tell me what. I’m... nervous.”

“Don’t be,” I tell him. “It’ll be fine.”

“This _is_ Snow we’re discussing.”

“Oi! You don’t trust me?”

“With my life. With a date? Well...”

Simon thwaps him hard across the thighs with his tail. Baz manages not to yelp, but I know him well enough to realise it’s an effort. Within another ten seconds they’re scuffling. Micah and I look at each other, grin, and shrug. This is normal. Nice.

I need to talk to Baz about what my dad said, though. It’s going to have to wait. I need him alone, and that in itself is an operation that requires military precision with Simon off work. We’re not going to get that opportunity today, by the looks of things, and it seems a bit unfair to bring it up on their anniversary, anyway.

Especially when they look so happy.

“Breakfast?” I say to Micah. He looks at me like I just offered the world. We were a bit late for Mum’s cooking. “Borrowing your kitchen,” I add, to the boys, as I stand. They don’t even look up, not that it’s easy to look up when you’re in a headlock being tickled.

Ridiculous. And perfect. Let’s just see if they’ve managed to get any groceries in.


	3. Thursday December 24th, 2020

**S I M O N**

Penny said I was mental going away the day before Christmas Eve, but I had to do _something_ , okay? The idea came to me about four months ago and from then up to yesterday I’ve been praying we wouldn’t get enough of a white Christmas that you couldn’t drive. I’m not the world’s best driver (at least I admit to it, though; Baz is just as bad and won’t) and even if he _is_ any better I could hardly tell him to drive to our super-secret anniversary date location, could I?

So I drove, and he spent the entire time trying to find ways to ask ‘are we nearly there yet?’ that weren’t actually ‘are we nearly there yet’, smoking out of the window (making the whole car freezing) and stopping singing along to the car CDs every time I called him on it (I should know by now not to call him on it, because he always stops, and he’s a good singer).

I nearly died of nerves about six times on the way and another twice when we got there, but this was the best of the ideas I had (only about three dozen of them): an official Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty at the bottom of Wiltshire, conveniently also a really good place to stargaze. I brought a picnic (meal out wasn’t even an option; he’ll do it sometimes but not reliably enough that I chance it without his suggestion, and I’m pretty sure it makes him uncomfortable, still). I brought blankets. I brought a proper propane heater from a camping store. And obviously, I brought the bloody ring that took five weeks to decide on and has been giving me nightmares for days on end (it had to be perfect, okay?).

Penny’s been telling me for four months that he was _obviously_ going to say yes, but even so, I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous as when I asked Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch to marry me. And I mean, I’ve stared down the Insidious Humdrum. And dragons. And merwolves. And _worsegers_.

So when I wake up this morning in the cute boutique B&B I booked us, and it’s still mostly dark outside, and we’re warm and cuddled up under this _huge_ gorgeous eiderdown duvet with the room chilly around us (I still like the windows open, I just got used to it, I suppose) which just makes it all feel all the more snug, the first thing I do is reach around over his waist to find his left hand, just to be sure. I don’t expect him to be anything like awake yet but I get a squeeze back, and a sleepy little, “Morning, Snow.”

“Morning,” I whisper back, cuddling up against his back. “Y’okay?”

“M’sleep.”

“You’re shite at mornings, you know.”

“S’not morning,” he mumbles, “’s dark out.”

I love half-asleep first-thing-in-the-morning Baz. I like to keep him talking just because I like the stupid muttering and slurred accent. Still, I give him a minute today, because to be fair, it is something like half-past six.

“Snow?” he says eventually - I was dozing off again myself - and I stir a bit, a wing twitching involuntarily.

“Yeah?”

“Did you _propose_ last night?”

“Yeah.”

He goes quiet for a minute, but I can tell by how he turns his face into the pillow that he’s grinning, and I hug in a bit tighter against his back. “You said yes. Just in case you’re too asleep to remember that bit.”

For that I get a huff of a laugh. “Did you doubt I would?”

Saying ‘well yeah, maybe, even though I realise that’s insane’ seems like a good way to end up arguing, and even just friendly arguing isn’t something I can be bothered with this morning, so I shrug and drop a kiss on the back of his shoulder and lie with a ‘nah’.

“Mnrfffffh,” he comments, which I take to probably mean _don’t be a tit, Snow._ (It usually does.)

“Mmff,” I tell him firmly, pressing in closer again, hand trailing patterns down his side.

My phone peeps over on the bedside. I spare it a glance, ignore it, graze over his hip... peep. He shifts a bit, approvingly...  Peep.

“Shut that up,” Baz mutters, sleepy and warm. I shift over enough to get half an eye of the bedside, flick my tail up with every intention of swiping my phone over so I can turn it to silent, misjudge the angle and send it on a neat arc to land right on his head.

He doesn’t even bother with a yelp, just turns over under my arm and sighs and says, apparently woken up by being battered in the head by a phone, absolutely deadpan, “Did I give you any reasons _why_ I said yes? Seriously?”

I offer a shrug, and a grin, but I can’t help glancing at my phone screen just to check what was so urgent. Penny, of course. The latest notification on the lock screen just says ‘ANSWER ME!’

I don’t bother unlocking it fully to tap back a quick-reply ‘YES’, which proves to be a mistake because precisely half a second later my phone actually rings. Baz looks borderline murderous for a moment, but that’s probably just because he’s not awake yet.

“She won’t give up,” I point out apologetically.

“Go ahead,” he says, curling up on my shoulder. I’m definitely okay with this.

I wrap an arm around his shoulders and a tail around the nearest leg and slide the answer bar over. Penny’s squawking in my ear before I can even say hello.

“What!? Seriously? You can’t be serious?!”

“Uh.” I’m starting to twig I should have read all her messages before I answered with an affirmative. “What was the question?”

“He didn’t say no, did he?!”

Oh. Right. Now she’s making sense.

“No, no, it’s okay,” I say quickly (I can feel Baz smirking, the git). “No. Wrong answer. I mean yes. I mean no--”

“It’s going to be Grimm-Pitch-Snow,” Baz puts in from somewhere in the region of my collarbone, loud enough for Penny to catch it. (This is not something we’ve discussed.) (Actually, all sensible conversation ended for the night after the ‘yes’.)

“Thank goodness!” she says. “You had me worried for a second. So? Tell me everything.” (Honestly, for someone so sensible, she’s a ridiculous gossip when it comes to us two. Not that we mind sharing. We’ve got it down to a double-act without ever having had to discuss it.)

“Bunce, it’s ridiculous o’clock the morning after we got engaged,” Baz pipes up, shifting just enough to be clear down the phone. “ _Sod off_.”

“Okay, okay,” Penny says, through a laugh. “But I want you to call me later and tell me everything. Both of you. Oh, Baz! Call me.”

“Bunce, you just _said_ that...”

“No,” she says, raising her voice a bit, “--am I on speakerphone?”

“No, I just have good hearing, and you’re giving me a headache,” he shoots back. “Bugger off.”

“I will, I will. But call me later, okay?”

“ _Fine_.”

I seem to be surplus to requirements here, so I cut back in with an ‘ahem’. “We’ll see you later, anyway, Pen - come over for dinner, if you want?”

“Can’t. Family Christmas Eve. But call me, definitely! And congratulations, by the way!”

“Thanks!” I chirrup happily, just about drowning out Baz’s almost-growl, and hang up (I think she beats me to it, but Penny’s got a thing about having the last word. For that matter, so has Baz. And he says I do. It’s a wonder any of us ever manage to finish a conversation). “Anyway. Morning.”

“Morning,” he says, quirking an eyebrow up with a smirk (definitely more awake now. Good). “Again.”

“Where were we?” I say, with a little smirk of my own.

“You were right about _there_ , and I was just about to... _there_.”

“You were not,” I tease. “You were sound asleep. And facing that way...”

“I’m not asleep now,” he says, and of course, gets the last word (I don’t know what he means about me always having to have it; he’s the argumentative git). It’s hard to argue when you’re being kissed like that.

 

~~~

**B A Z**

Check-out time is eleven o’clock. We miss it by a clear two hours. I drive home, since Snow drove us here; by now I’m used to him hanging on to my left hand even through gear changes and flicking the indicator, but it feels different with an engagement ring there. (Antiqued silver - or rather, real antique, if I’m not wrong - an almost-flat profile narrow band that flares in slight filigree around a small ruby which catches the light like fire - it’s perfect.) ( _Anything_ would be perfect.) On the way, Snow calls Bunce on speakerphone and between us, we give her all the details. Well - Snow gives her most of the details. I hardly dare speak in case I start squeaking and lose all hope of ever retaining any dignity around him, which is hard enough, half the time, anyway. Just before she signs off, Bunce reminds me again to call her later. I wonder if it’s because she misses my biting wit and sharp commentary in this conversation. (Probably not.)

I don’t get chance until much later - late enough that it seems only polite to text her first, checking that she’s alright to talk. She calls me back almost at once, and I’m glad I thought to put my phone on silent. Snow’s sound and out on my chest, one arm sprawled across the pillows, wings askew, tail wrapped around my legs.

“Is Simon there?” is the first thing she asks. Bunce doesn’t bother with ‘hello’ with me. We’re practical like that.

“Yes, but sound asleep. Just talk quietly.”  
“Are you sure he’s asleep?”

“I think I know when my bo-- fiancé is asleep, Bunce.”

“Okay.” She hesitates for a second. “I just need to be sure before I tell you this. He can’t overhear, okay? He _can’t_.”

I am intrigued, and possibly a little concerned. This does not sound like she’s just after my take on the Great Proposal Incident. “He won’t, if you keep quiet. I have good hearing.” And I’m all but whispering. Bunce is probably straining to hear, though she’s doing a good job of it, by all accounts.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “It’s about the dead zones.”

“Go on.”

Bunce takes a breath. “Okay. You have to not... react.”

“I have some self-control, Penelope.”

She pauses a moment. She knows I’m serious when I use her first name.

“They’re recovering almost exponentially. Almost all of the smaller ones are done - we weren’t expecting that for years, decades. And the bigger ones are starting to close in from the edges. Based on what Dad’s seen so far, we can extrapolate that the outermost ten percent or so around the perimeter will take a week, and then they’ll… all but _snap_ closed over on a proportional rate. If the pattern holds they’ll be gone by mid-January.”

I stay quiet. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure what I’m thinking.

Questions seem safest. Besides, Bunce likes answering questions. “Am I right in thinking they’re closing over in approximately reverse order? The first ones to form are the first ones to heal?”

“Generally speaking, yes. There was some variation in the pattern at first, and there are a few Dad can’t be absolutely one hundred percent on the order, but as far as he can work out that’s it, yes.”

“But the order of formation doesn’t necessarily match to the order of magnitude.”

“No, but some of the last ones were… big. Really bad. And they’re more recent, obviously. Five years ago, holes potentially up to seventeen, eighteen years old were starting to recover. Now they’re only five years old. You follow?”

Of course I do, but I hold back the frustrated huff at her. “Yes. I do. Does this mean…”

She’s ahead of me, of course (only because she’s had longer to think about this, obviously). “I don’t know. That’s why Simon can’t overhear any of this. I mean - once they’re done we have to tell him, because it’ll be so good for him to know it’s okay again. But…”

“Holes want to be filled,” I put in quietly.

“Maybe.”

“Snow’s got a hole too.”

“Look, there are no guarantees. Nobody’s promising anything. What we’re talking about is actually really, really unlikely. So you can’t tell him, Baz, you can’t get his hopes up. Promise.”

Just get my hopes up then, instead, I think. Thanks a lot, Bunce.

“Of course,” I whisper. “I promise.” Snow stirs by my side and I hug him in tighter, murmuring a hush under my breath.

“Y’wake?” he mutters, blurry.

“Shh. Go back to sleep. It’s late.”

Bunce has the good sense to keep quiet, and I’ve dropped my phone on the pillow where he won’t see.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Must have been asleep a couple of hours. Do you need to go out?”

I could wait. But the walk would do me a lot of good, probably. “Wouldn’t hurt,” I say. “You stay here. I won’t be long.”

“Nah, I’ll come.”

I hear the phone cut out - just the slightest change in the quality of the sound by my ear, but it’s enough. He wouldn’t notice even if he was fully awake. My hearing is a lot better.

I still have mixed feelings about him coming. He doesn’t care, I know, and in a rather twisted way I like the company, but I still prefer him not to _see_. I can usually persuade him to hang back, at least.

“Alright,” I concede after a moment. He grins, leans up to kiss me, then springs off to get dressed.

I check my phone while he’s in the toilet. There’s a text from Bunce.

_Talk later. Don’t tell._


	4. Saturday January 9th, 2021

**S I M O N**

Baz has been off for days.

At first I thought it was just us both settling into the new normal - we’re engaged now; that sort of thing changes nothing and everything all at once. But that wouldn’t leave him pensive and looking sort of sad. At least, I bloody hope it wouldn’t.

And I know he’s got some big meeting about his Masters thesis at the back end of January, but I’ve seen him stress (pointlessly; he’s brilliant) about those before and it’s nothing like this.

Christmas was quiet, just us. New Year’s, we drove up to where his family are living now for their big fancy party, most of which we spent hiding out in the orangery getting pissed and playing board games with his half-siblings. And then it was back to normality. Me back to work, him back to essays and textbooks and part-time Starbucks.

This morning, he looks brighter. Determined, even. I’ve spent a lot of time studying him over the years. I know what his determined face looks like.

“We’re going out today,” he says, and honestly, I’m so pleased he’s looking a bit more perky that I don’t even ask where, just blink up from my laptop and do a sort of ‘okay, I’ll get my coat’ while he’s already shrugging into his.

Crowley, he’s keen. Baz is… well, I know him better than to say ‘chill’; people who don’t know him well think that, sure, but I’ve seen him bouncing excitedly about bloody TV programmes, not to mention basically fanboying _me_ , which is a) kind of cute and b) totally destroys any hope he’s got of me thinking he’s as cool as he likes everyone else to think. But even so, outside of certain circumstances, he keeps a lid on it. Even when he’s excited he usually has this kind of cool, sexy languid thing going on. But right now he’s hovering by the door all but quivering.

It’s not necessarily good quivering. There’s that determination, plus something nervous underneath it. I know fine I can be fucking oblivious, but we’ve been together five years, and I spent the eight before that studying him intently for plotting and evil, and he’s not as closed off with me as he is with everyone else.

He’s edgy. I don’t like it.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask once we’re in the car.

He doesn’t answer. In fact, he changes the subject, which is an avoidance tactic I don’t like one bit. Still, we’re doing something and he’s not looking at me like I’m fragile, which is a nice development from the past week or so. (It took me months to convince him I’m not bloody fragile. I mean, for a while I probably was, but treating me like a glass ornament didn’t help one bit. And I put a stop to him and Penny not using magic around me fast, too; they tried that for a while, trying not to make me feel bad I guess, but it just made it worse. Made me wonder if I’d dreamed all of it. If I was actually completely fucking mental.) (Anyway, the last week or ten days he’s been back to the fragile thing. Subtle, not being a dick about it, but I’ve caught a certain look in his eye when he thought I wasn’t looking, more times than I’d like.)

I know by now that sometimes I just have to leave it be, and he’ll tell me or show me when he’s ready. So I do. I put the radio on, Radio Two, and we end up singing along to the tunes on Pick of the Pops that we know (1982 and 1976, this week, so not much, but there are a few classics we can at least pick up the chorus of).

It’s a nice day for a drive, cold and crisp out, bright blue sky and all that. It hasn’t snowed in a few days, but there’s still frosty glitter hanging on the privet hedges and cars that haven’t moved in a while. And, once we get out of the city, on the hedgerows and trees, too.

I don’t even notice where we’re going until we’re there.

And then I think, _shit_.

 

~~~

**B A Z**

I’ve had Bunce tracking the holes since Christmas Eve. By New Year, she just gave me her father’s phone number and told me to do it directly. It’s been a tense few days, because for some reason I felt it imprudent to say I was waiting for one close enough to home to be ready to snap shut in the hopes I could drag Snow there and...

And what?

It’s a vain hope. I’m fooling myself. Bunce was right to say we couldn’t tell him. It isn’t going to work, and it would have been cruel to make him hope.

We’re here now, and suddenly I feel bloody stupid, but I can’t stop thinking... what if it _does_?

“It’s, uh, well kept,” Snow says from the passenger seat, “considering they haven’t lived here in five years.”

We came up a driveway lined by yew trees, my tyres making the first tracks in perfect snowfall. I used to look out of one of the landing windows onto this view after the first snow and run downstairs to put on the warmest clothes I could find before dashing outside just to be the first thing to put a mark in it. I never made snowmen or snow angels or had snowball fights (with whom? I was younger than eleven - this was before Watford - so even if any of my half-siblings were around, they were too young to play in the snow with little me). I just liked marking it. Claiming it for mine.

“It is,” I say quietly. I think my father must still have someone looking in now and then. Keeping it decent in the hope we can move back here someday, that the magic will come back.

If Dr Bunce is right, I might get to make a really good phone call to my Dad and Daphne later.

“Baz,” Snow says quietly, squeezing my hand tight (of course we were holding hands. It feels weird changing gears without his hand over mine, now). “Why are we here...?”

I don’t have a cover story. Fucking stupid. I was so fucking excited when Dr Bunce texted me to tell me his predictions showed this one - my one, as I think of it - was due to snap today, a Saturday when I’m off to boot, that I just practically threw Snow in the car and drove.

“Just...  come with me,” I say weakly. He doesn’t look happy about it, but he does.

I feel like shit. I have no idea what I was thinking - how _dare_ I bring him here, to the worst of the dead zones, especially without even having the decency to tell him why? Like Bunce said, though, I can’t tell him why. _If we’re lucky, and the world has gone a little bit mad, you might get your magic back. It might just snap into you, too, when it closes over the dead zone. But don’t get your hopes up, because we’re working on a wing and a prayer and my stupid, stupid, love-sick optimism here_.

I don’t think so.

I take his hand and lace our fingers together, and he squeezes me and presses in close against my side, and we make our way through the virgin snow towards the forest.

 

~~~

**S I M O N**

Honestly? I’m kind of pissed off.

I know that’s irrational, but I also know (thanks to a year of Skype sessions with a psychiatrist, which turned out to be kind of one of the best things I ever did) that it being irrational doesn’t make it invalid, and that I should address it and not let it fester. But Baz, when I look over, has a look that I think is worried and determined in equal parts, and I can’t bring myself to say anything. In fact, it kind of helps the anger fade.

This means something to him. I get that. As far as I know, he hasn’t been back here in five years. Maybe there’s something special about the date, something significant. Not any of his brothers’ or sisters’ birthdays, though (I know all of those by heart, and make sure I sign their cards), or his parents’ wedding anniversary...

Wait, no, it might be. I only know Malcolm and Daphne’s anniversary. Not _his_ parents’ one. (Even though he uses Daphne and Mum almost interchangeably most of the time. Daphne around me; Mum around the kids.)

Maybe he associates this place with Natasha, even though she’s buried at Watford, and is doing a sort of ‘meet the (dead) in-laws’ now we’re engaged. I don’t know. I know him almost better than I know myself, and sometimes I can’t figure out the first thing about how his mind works.

I let him lead the way towards the forest, even though it makes my stomach churn. It’s cold, and I don’t have gloves on, and I’m gripping his hand so hard it hurts.

 

~~~

**B A Z**

This is stupid. This is so stupid. The air is dead; I can’t sense a thing. No magic. Maybe Dr Bunce’s calculations were off. Maybe it’s the wrong day. Maybe this one will never heal. (That would be just the Grimm-Pitch luck.)

I don’t even know where I’m leading until I see the edge of the forest. We haven’t said a word since we got out of the car.

 

~~~

**S I M O N**

He looks worse than worried. He looks upset.

And I’m angry and scared, but mostly I’m worried about him. He hasn’t said a word since we got here.

I’m not sure when it started snowing, but suddenly I’m aware of it drifting down, huge fat snowflakes that sting on my face and don’t melt on him. I only glance over for a second but then I get caught looking. His eyes are dark and distant, shadowed under a faint frown, and I’m pretty sure he’s chewing the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood.

I’m not exactly a huge fan of the taste of blood, but I could be wrong, and I don’t care anyway.

 

~~~

**B A Z**

I’m not expecting the kiss. It’s sudden, and there’s an edge of something fierce on the periphery of it, but I don’t care about that. I’ll take anything, everything he’ll give me, and beg him for more. Always.

When we finally part, I’ve got my back up against a tree and he’s pressed flush against me; my hands are in his hair, he’s got one on my hip and one bunching up the fabric of my jumper under my coat. His tail is invisible, but I can feel it wrapped around one of my shins, and I know - somehow, without seeing - that he’s got his wings brought forward, around us both, around the tree trunk. He only moves back a fraction, just enough to speak, still so close I can feel his lips move.

“Are you okay?”

 

~~~

**S I M O N**

It nearly kills me when he says, “Not really.”

Not because he’s not okay - I’d figured that much out; I’m not that stupid. Because he doesn’t _do_ ‘not really’. I’ve occasionally got an honest ‘no’ out of him, but it’s usually either that or a lying ‘of course’ when he’s upset. _Not really_ is new, and uncertain, and that hurts.

“Talk to me,” I whisper against his mouth, kissing him again for a second, just because I can. I’m not angry any more. I’m worried. And upset, just because he obviously is.

“I can’t,” he says quietly, and I feel him kind of deflate a bit under me, against the tree. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s this all about?” I try another tack. Sometimes you have to work up to things, with Baz.

He bites his lip again (no fangs. And he didn’t draw blood before, something I’m quietly grateful for). “I can’t tell you.”

This might get frustrating, but for him, I’m willing to persevere. In between soft, quiet kisses. I know how to get around him, by now. And this seems important enough that I don’t want to let it go.

“Come on,” I whisper. “It’s okay, love. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He hesitates another second, kisses me, then pulls back, looks like he’s about to actually tell me something important or at least vaguely worthwhile, like why we’re freezing our bollocks off out here somewhere I _absolutely do not want to be_. And then his eyes go wide and he just stiffens, right through, like he looked a basilisk in the eye over my shoulder.

“Baz?” I say quickly, sharper than I should. Worried.

“I-- Crowley and Crystal, Snow, I-- did you-- _fuck_. Did you feel that?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about.

 

~~~

**B A Z**

It’s back. It’s back. _It’s back_. I felt it. I felt it rocket through me like a sheet of flame, like a flare from the sun, like _home_. I’ve had _something_ on the very periphery of my awareness for the past few minutes - it started when he kissed me, when I think about it, though I wasn’t thinking about much at the time - and when I became aware of it, I tried to nudge at it, gently, but I can’t push and pull magic like Snow can. (Could.) And then it _blazes_ through me and takes my breath away and leaves me shaking.

“You must have,” I say, and I know there’s a sliver of desperation on the edge of my voice but I don’t care, fingers curling in his hair, probably pulling, but he doesn’t object. Just shakes his head slightly and looks at me like he’s genuinely worried I may have finally cracked. “Snow, you-- _Simon_ , come on, _please_ , please tell me you felt that!”

But he’s got nothing. I can see it in his eyes: confusion, worry, distress.

I think I want to cry.

 

~~~

**S I M O N**

He looks like he wants to cry, and I have no idea why. I let him shift me off, gently - he stays close, though, hugs me for a long moment once we’re standing properly - and let him lead the way back towards the car in sad silence, with our fingers entwined and my tail wrapped, unseen, around his waist. He keeps so close to me that I think he might be worried he’ll drift away if we’re not touching on as many points as possible.

We get back to the car and I put him on the passenger side, because I’m not completely convinced he’s okay to drive. He seems sort of... out of it. And he’s still not talking.

There’s a pack of cigarettes in the central console, and I get one out and offer it over even though I’m not a great fan of him smoking. Don’t have a lighter, of course; he never needs one. No, wait, car lighter. I turn the ignition (heat, too! Brilliant) and give it a second to warm up. It’s a fancy car, of course it warms up fast; there are heated seats, too, which is a nice bonus in this weather.

I have a limited-at-best idea of how to light a cigarette, but it sort of takes without me drawing on it, and he accepts it when I offer it over. His hand’s shaking slightly.

Whatever this is, it’s not good.

There’s something quiet and instrumental on the radio (I think it’s from some old musical or other, like an overture) (I know a few of those, from his violin practise); I turn it down another couple of clicks, touch the passenger-side window-down button thingy and take his hand when he switches the cig to the other side to tap ash onto the snow outside. “Come on,” I say softly. “Talk to me. Why are we here?”

He’s quiet for a long, long moment.

“The dead zones are healing,” he says softly, at last. He’s not looking at me.

“But... that’s good,” I point out, just as quietly.

He looks at me then. Like I just surprised him somehow.

“It is,” I say, shifting my grip on his hand a bit so I can hold him tighter, and shuffling around slightly on the seat (awkward with the wings, but it’s been five years; I’m used to them now) to look at him properly. “Baz. That’s _good_. Did this one just... close up, then? Is that what you felt?”

“Yes,” he says. “You’re... you’re okay?”

Part of me thinks I shouldn’t be, but I _am_. “Yeah,” I say, and I really hope he can tell how honest I’m being. “I mean - yeah, it hurts. Of course it does. That’s never going to go away. But I’m... I don’t know if ‘over it’ is the right term, but I’ve come to terms with it. Accepted it. I’m okay.”

“You’re... okay? _Really?”_

“Yeah. I’m okay. It’s been five years, Baz, I’m used to it. And-- and not just used to it. It’s just... how it is. And I’m okay with that. I promise.” And I am. It’s taken a long time, but I’m okay. I miss magic, of course I do, but honestly? I was pretty crap with it anyway. The world is better off with me not having it, and I’m definitely better off personally. Took me a long time to realise that, but it’s true. If I could have it back, would I say yes? Yeah. Probably. If it was under control, definitely. But the way it was before, no chance. Besides, magic or no magic, I’m happy the way we are. We match, even if he’s magic and I’m basically Normal, albeit Normal with dragon wings and a devil tail. And I’ve got Penny, and me and Baz are engaged now, and I’ve got a decent job and he’s so joyfully entrenched in academia he’s probably going to take up recreational doctorates when he finishes his MA, and it’s just good. It works.

He’s looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head though. And the confusion on his face is honestly sort of funny. I know I shouldn’t laugh. I _know_ I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it.

“It’s not funny,” he says, and he sounds hurt, which shuts me up fast.

“Sorry. Just-- the look you had there. You think you wouldn’t have known if I wasn’t okay? I wouldn’t have told you? You know me better than that.”

He looks at me for a moment or two, then nods. “I suppose so, yes.”

“Yeah.” I shuffle round a bit more, drop the back of the seat down so my wings have some room, and tug him over into a hug over the handbrake. “And we’ve had this. You did this. The first year, and the year after. And a bit the year after that. Christmas is a shit time of year.”

“No, it’s not,” he counters, which is exactly what I wanted, because he’s the one who got that through _my_ thick skull in the first place, after 2015.

I just give him a smirk back, one I hope says _exactly, you numpty_ , and a hug, and we’re quiet for a while, and then I can’t stop myself asking.

“Are you not telling me something?”

He’s silent for, oh, about a lifetime. And then he pulls back, takes a long drag off the cigarette, and informs the cold air outside - not looking at me - that, “Penelope’s father has been tracking the dead zones’ activity. You know that, of course. But what they’re doing... they suddenly snap shut. Like they’re tentative at first, then just close over all at once. And... I had hoped that... that if you were there when one of them...”

He trails off, but I’ve got it now. And I get why he’s been acting off for a while, too. Because he’s had this what-if in his head, not letting on to me, getting his hopes up on my behalf...

Shit, the poor bastard.

The idea’s in my head too now, and I have to stop thinking about it before I get my hopes up too. It’s okay, I tell myself, fiercely. I’m fine. I’ve been fine for years. The vague and really unlikely possibility of getting my magic back doesn’t make me any less alright. It doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t fucking matter_.

“It’s okay,” I say out loud, and I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. “I-- I’ve been fine all this time, Baz. I mean, like I said, it took a while, but... I _am_ okay. You didn’t have to...”

“I had to try,” he says quietly. “I just want you to have it back.”

“I’m okay,” I say, but I’m not sure I’m persuading myself any more. We’re quiet for a while, him leaning against my shoulder, hands entwined. After a minute or so, I can’t stand it any more. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He glances up at me, frowning slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, course I am. C’mon. Let’s go exploring. Besides, you’re grey.” He can’t have fed properly in a while - definitely not yesterday; I always notice the flush. I like the flush. (Okay, I like trying to make him blush when he can, because it’s ridiculously cute.) “C’mon.”

He hesitates for a second, then nods. “Okay. Come on, then.”

We step back out of the car and into the falling snow, and I zip round the front of the bonnet to take his hand again. And we head back towards the forest, together, but with more certainty this time.


	5. Sunday January 10th, 2021

**B A Z**

I wake up Sunday morning stiff and sore and freezing cold, but there’s a flicker of hope somewhere in my slow, dead heart. Maybe it worked. Maybe something took.

Snow is asleep beside me, which is a beautiful rarity - he’s almost always up first, unless it’s a weekend and I’ve got an opening shift. (Those are rare these days; I did twenty hours a week or more when I was an undergrad, but I’ve cut right back since I started the MA.) He looks so peaceful and perfect, golden bronze against our navy-blue bedsheets, and I’m content just to cuddle up and watch him until he wakes up naturally.

We walked for hours yesterday. I know every inch of the grounds off by heart, but even I would have to admit I almost got lost a few times when we got really far from the house. I took down a deer in the forest and he kissed me breathless before my fangs had fully receded, a dangerous thrill which both scares and excites me every time. I **I see you** ’d his wings and tail, because there was next to no chance whatsoever of being disturbed. We strolled the forests and dales of my ancestral home like we owned the place, hand in hand or arm in arm, stopping wherever we liked for as long as we pleased.

At some point, we found that one spot where, five years ago, I told him he was a fucking mess, and that we matched, and we stayed there long enough that I burned the snow off the ground and warmed the air around us; we laid down our coats and settled there, and I leaned up to his kisses as we whispered and mumbled _I love you_ s against each other’s mouths; and in the afterwards, shaking but not from cold, he pulled me close and whispered _everything’s going to be okay, love_.

I felt terrible that it was _him_ comforting _me_ and not the other way around, but I believed him - I believe him - when he said he was fine. Or if not fine, at least at peace with his lot. I can see it; I’ve seen it for a long time, so quiet and calm underneath the chaos of life (life with Snow, to boot, which is neither a quiet nor calm experience) that I almost missed it, because I wasn’t looking. But I knew, on some level. I knew come Christmas two years ago when he didn’t have a blue funk about being useless. I knew when he started offering stories of magic and fantasy to my little siblings without them having to ask (he didn’t protest before, but I should have seen at the time that it was different when he _offered_. Or rather, when his gregarious - and honestly witty and perfectly-pitched - offerings weren’t _all_ fantasy and princesses and make-believe, but real, too, even weaving in a little of me and him when we were younger) (he skims the bad parts, or makes up details I like much better than the truth). I knew when I stopped feeling guilty for using magic around him - something he made me do, practically begged me (“Fuck’s sake, Baz, Penny, if you don’t I’ll think I dreamed all of it, don’t do that to me”), but it was months before the shadow left his eyes every time he saw it.

I’ve known for a long time, and I still dragged him out there yesterday on a wing and a prayer, and I still hope it worked.

We ended up quoting old lines at one another there in my snow-melted patch of grass, legs still tangled up, trading kisses and smiles. _We match_ and _everything’s going to be okay, love_ and stupid, romantic things about stars. They’re not powerful enough to be spells; they only have meaning to us. But it set me thinking. The power of a person’s home is unique and special, and I’ve got that back, I had that, yesterday, there, for the first time in five years. It lit me up inside, burned so hard sometimes that I had to hold back; I wondered, once or twice, if this was a very pale and poor imitation of what Snow’s going off had felt like.

_This is my place_ , I thought then, with snow banked around us, edges sheared clean and icy from the flamethrower melting; _I am the Pitch heir and this is my home and my castle._

And _that_ has power.

And Snow was, then, still dead to it, and didn’t notice that it became _I love you, **I do**_ , or the whispered **_to have and to hold_** after the _I’m yours, always yours_ , or that I subtly, quietly threw in easily a dozen more marriage and bonding sorts of things, some I only half-remembered, none of which I had any certainty of working, pushing just a little magic into each. I’ve never done a bloody union rite before; I had no idea if any of it would do any good, but I _needed_ the place to understand, on whatever level its magic understands - and it does; just look at Watford; old magickal places _know_ \- that I’m his and he’s mine, that we’re a unit, a set, that he’s Pitch and I’m Snow in all the ways that matter.

I let him think my _please, yes, please_ was to him, when really, I was begging my hearth and home to take him as one of us.

He stirs beside me, a wing quivering before stretching out and up - mercifully not knocking anything off the bedside; we’ve had that enough times in the past - and blinks slowly a couple of times, drifting up to consciousness. “Morning,” he says, nudging in against me for a quick kiss. (Full-blown making out with someone who has morning breath - and _everyone_ has morning breath; I’m fairly sure I could knock someone out with mine if I fed the night before, even if I brush my teeth until it hurts and do mouthwash shots - is frankly disgusting, but we’ve had five years to get a technique of not putting each other off down to perfection.)

“Morning,” I whisper back, with a smile and a quick, soft kiss, and then, because I’m a fucking disturbed masochist, “How do you feel?”

The look he gives me is too close to pity for my pride to take. “Same as always,” he says, “fine.” I glance away until he catches a fingertip under my jaw, presses a kiss to the corner of my lips, and whispers by my ear, “Do us a _minty fresh_ , love.” He’s kissing me almost before I get the words out.


	6. Saturday January 16th, 2021

**S I M O N**

In the week since we ended up at the Grimm-Pitch family pile, we’ve been through the constant questioning phase, the screwing even more than usual which I thought honestly might not be possible phase, the Baz is in denial and denying he’s in denial phase, the Baz’s pissiness is starting to piss me off phase, and circled slowly back around to some kind of normality. I know it’s going to take longer than a week to be normal, really, but it’s good enough. It doesn’t feel fragile today, like it has for the past week.

We get up late, go to Starbucks for lunch - takeaway, of course - Skype Penny in the afternoon, when it’s a reasonable time in the states. We text almost every day but this is the first time I’ve seen her face-to-face (or as good as) to tell her about the not-dead-any-more zone that snapped shut with me in the middle of it. She doesn’t hide her disappointment any better than Baz has been doing.

I just want them both to be ordinary again. Like it was before. Of _course_ I don’t fucking like not having magic, whatever I tell myself. I’ve come to terms with it, I’ve accepted it, I’m ‘at peace with it’ (that’s a Baz phrase), but I don’t fucking _like_ it. But it’s true what I tell myself. I’m better off without it, definitely how it was, maybe any way at all. The world is better off like that. I appreciate what they did, and I get why they did it, and it’s sweet, but they’re _wrong_.

It’s never coming back.

And I just have to get used to that.

For the first time in a good three years, I almost caught myself hoping it would. Just a bit of it. Enough that I could start again, learn the basics, do it right this time. But it doesn’t. And it won’t.

And we all just have to live with that.

 

~~~

**P E N N Y**

Simon can tell Baz and I need to talk, and after half an hour of the three of us on Skype he comes up with some line we all know is an excuse and leaves us to it.

“I tried,” he says, almost before Simon’s out of the room. I hear the door click, off camera, a second later. “Crowley, Bunce, I tried so hard...”

“I know,” I say, because what else can I say? I hoped it would work too. I was ecstatic when my Dad called to tell me the Grimm-Pitch DZ was predicted to close up. I knew straight away what Baz would do with it, even though we’d never solidified a plan between us. I’m distraught for Simon too, just as much as Baz is.

“I tried to get the place to accept him,” he goes on, quietly, not looking at the screen (camera) (me). “When I felt it - it’s incredible, Penny, feeling it come back. Like a flood of fire. I felt _alive_. Which for something that’s probably technically dead--”

“Don’t do that,” I snap. We did Simon-isn’t-useless; sometimes we’re still working on Baz-isn’t-dead. He isn’t too bad with it these days, but it slips out now and then. “You’re-- never mind. That’s not the point. You’re fine. What was that about getting the place to take him?”

“You know the power of your own home is different,” he points out. “I thought... We’re engaged, after all. He’s Pitch and I’m Snow, to all intents and purposes, as far as my ancestral home need be concerned. That place is my legacy, Bunce--” we’re back to surname terms, then, that didn’t last long, “--I’m the _damn Pitch heir_ , I should have been able to make it--!”

“Make it do what?” I snap, too sharp, because I’ve learnt that sometimes that’s how you have to get through to him. “If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there. And that is shit, and sad, and tragic, but that’s how it is. We tried. We did our best, Baz. He’ll be okay.”

He sighs, still not looking at me. “I know,” he says, so quietly the mic almost doesn’t catch it. “I know. He’s strong. He’s brilliant. And yet...”

“I believed it would work as well,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he whispers.

“Are you two okay, though?”

“We’re-- yes, we’re fine.” I eyeball him until he gives up a bit more. “We’re not really talking about it, but I think that’s what he wants. We’ll be alright. We’re not fighting, if that’s what you mean.”

“Still being disgusting saps on the couch every night?” I ask, with a bit of a grin.

He almost smiles back. “Always.”

“Good,” I say firmly. “Don’t ever change.”

 


	7. Friday January 22nd, 2021

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final part! Short, but hopefully a worthy conclusion...
> 
> Your feedback keeps my cold dead heart beating. <3

**S I M O N**

It begins with just the faintest shadow of a thing somewhere in my stomach, just as Baz finishes flamethrower-ing the snow off the windshield. It’s small, and slow, and cautious. It’s careful. It’s a little seed of something that flickers and flares and pulls back, as if it’s scared.

It rears its head a bit, peeks around, tries out the waters. This is hindsight; I’ve got no idea at the time.

Not until it recognises something - I don’t know what; I’ve never known how to control it, not really - maybe it’s love or strength or compassion or unity - but it catches onto something like he’s that blue touchpaper stuff and _sparks_ up through me and glances across the fraction of a breath between our palms.

“Did you--?” I ask -- _feel that?_

He cuts me off. “Yes. _Yes_.”

It begins there, with the windshield of his once-perfect-then-I-got-to-it-sorry-Baz car frozen over, and me late for work, and a heart melted into the ice that’s still left on the driver’s window, at seven o’clock in the morning on an otherwise completely Normal Friday.

Except nothing is ever going to be Normal again.

It’s going to be a long road. I’ve got a lot to learn. But I’ve got good teachers.

Tonight, slowly, carefully, bit by bit, with Penny on Skype and quick kisses when she’s not looking and all the old textbooks I know he’s kept somewhere since our Watford days, we’ll begin again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Rhien, theadorart (tumblr) and RooWanders (AO3); I couldn’t have done this without you guys, and I appreciate every comment, critique, scream, cry and arse-kick that got this fic from the beginnings of an idea to a finished piece.
> 
> Special snowy shoutout to Mia, who may or may not also inhabit my brain.


End file.
